Entering a bad dream
I see the willows whisper,
the geraniums tense, the cricket sit in silence,
while the voice of the nearby river
meanders among stones, gulls and reeds
towards the ocean's filthy gut.

This whirlwind raging outside my window
merges sleep, wakefulness, opinions,
history according to Salvador Dalí
a demented gale that penetrates my eyes,
and then comes to a stop,
transformed by my brain.

The clock says three. I have the feeling
that history has stopped in Gaiman,
time navigates between invisible seas;
the cricket, a vague, immobile form at the window,
displays its precarious fortitude.
At this hour I would like to declare
that history has stopped,
the nightmares pretend to have gone on their way -
a few seconds tick by, the blink of an eye,
before an enormous dream claims them.